Once the game against Grand Rapids was over, Squadron players were officially on break—well, most of them anyway.
Soon after the buzzer sounded, Chasanoff, Campbell, and Pannone pulled Harper aside for a private conversation. Birmingham’s star point guard had struggled in the blowout victory, registering just 5 points and turning the ball over 4 times. It didn’t matter. His fate was sealed regardless of what transpired that afternoon. Now Squadron brass was prepared to inform him of that fate.
Harper had been with Birmingham for nearly two months, averaging 21.2 points, 4.9 assists, and 1.9 steals, while shooting 41 percent from three and ranking second in the entire G League in total three-point field goals. He was one of the main reasons that the team had won seven straight, serving as a leader on and off the court. He deserved to be rewarded for his efforts. And so he was—the Pelicans were signing him to a two-way contract. Harper would be the first call-up in the history of the Birmingham Squadron.
His reaction to the news, which included a considerable salary bump, was not quite what one imagines in such a scenario. There were no tears shed, no screams in excitement, no dropping to his knees and triumphantly raising his arms to the heavens. That wasn’t Harper. Besides, the news was, in his mind, expected. He was more concerned with next steps than reveling in the moment. When would he fly out? Where would he meet the team? How would he get his car from Birmingham to New Orleans? These were the thoughts that immediately rushed to his mind.
In a related move, the Pelicans waived forward Daulton Hommes, who had occupied Harper’s two-way spot. Hommes, a six-foot-eight forward, was tremendously talented but had been dealing with nagging injuries that kept him sidelined. Both he and the Pelicans’ other two-way player, Jose Alvarado, were excellent examples of what it takes to earn an NBA contract.
Hommes’ story was an embodiment of the utmost perseverance. As a high schooler at Lynden Christian in Whatcom County, Washington, Hommes had torn the same ACL twice. He missed all of his junior and senior seasons, sitting out during the most pivotal time for his recruitment. The head coach at Western Washington University, a Division II school in Bellingham, had seen Hommes play when he was younger and was willing to give him a chance, especially since the kid had sprouted from six feet to six feet seven while injured.
“I was the eighteenth man on the roster, so he basically made an exception for me,” Hommes explained. “Most teams carry fifteen, sixteen guys. We had eighteen. I really was just on the roster. I had no number—just basically a practice player.”
After redshirting his freshman year to continue rehabbing, Hommes returned to the floor and worked his way to become the team’s star, eventually transferring to Point Loma Nazarene University and winning Division II National Player of the Year in 2019. He spent the 2019–20 campaign with the Austin Spurs of the G League and then a season in Italy prior to getting the two-way deal from New Orleans.
Alvarado, a six-foot point guard originally from Brooklyn, New York, exemplifies the heart and passion that all NBA coaches seek from their players. His style is relentless. He defends the full length of the court, picking up his man as soon as the ball gets inbounded. He is aggressive, physical, intense, annoying—like a bug that never stops buzzing in your ear. He gladly does all the dirty work, whatever it takes to get a victory. As Jordan Usher, his teammate at Georgia Tech, once told the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, “Jose would cut off his fingers for us to win a game.”1
One of Alvarado’s signature moves—and a viral sensation on social media—is to hide in the corners of the court and then sneak up on whoever has the ball to get a steal. In a word, he is a pest. And every NBA team wants a pest. Squadron coaches would often encourage Harper to emulate Alvarado. In their view, fitting that archetype—the bug always buzzing in your ear—was the easiest way for an undersized guard to carve out a role in the NBA. Harper’s game was different than Alvarado’s; he had his own strengths that had carried him to this point, on the verge of signing with the Pelicans.
Now he and Alvarado held the organization’s only available two-way roster spots. And they would be off to New Orleans—to the NBA—together.
Cheatham was content when he climbed into bed on the night of December 20. Birmingham had taken care of business at the Showcase, winning both of its games in emphatic fashion. Cheatham, himself, had excelled. Through the first stretch of the season, he was now averaging 14.2 points, 10.4 rebounds, and 1.2 steals and shooting 43 percent from behind the arc. He was the only player in the entire G League averaging more than 10 rebounds while hitting more than 40 percent of his threes. He had done everything within his power to put himself in a position for a call-up. Now he just had to wait and see what happened.
He was awakened early on December 21 by the sound of his phone buzzing. He let the call go to voicemail, still mustering the strength to get out of bed. When he finally dragged himself up, Cheatham saw that his agent, Drew Gross, had been trying to reach him. In a daze, he called back immediately.
“Have you left for the airport yet?” Gross asked.
“Nah, my flight is at 2:00. Why?”
“Because you gotta change your gate,” Gross said. “You’re not going to Phoenix. You’re going to Miami. The Heat just signed you.”
Cheatham’s eyes widened.
I’m going to Miami? The Heat just signed me? The words replayed in his head, over and over. I’m going to Miami? The Heat just signed me?
It was one thing to get called up; it was another to get called up by the Miami Heat. Miami had a reputation for not just winning but also discovering talent in the G League. The team’s current roster featured former G Leaguers Duncan Robinson, Gabe Vincent, Max Strus, Caleb Martin, Omer Yurtseven, Dewayne Dedmon, and Chikezie “K. Z.” Okpala. Call-ups from previous seasons included Kendrick Nunn, Derrick Jones Jr., Tyler Johnson, and Hassan Whiteside, all of whom had gone on to ink significant NBA contracts.
“Heat culture” is a well-known catchphrase used to describe Miami’s unique approach to building championship-caliber teams. Not everyone is a good fit for Heat culture, capable of meeting the organization’s strict demands. Players have to be mentally and physically strong, disciplined, committed, passionate. The fact that it was Miami who had pursued Cheatham was particularly encouraging. He wasn’t just being summoned to the NBA; he was being summoned to one of the NBA’s most respected franchises. He was being trusted to join Heat culture.
“I just felt an overwhelming excitement,” Cheatham said. As soon as he got off the phone, he started running around his hotel room, jumping on the bed, yelling at the top of his lungs, dancing in front of the bathroom mirror in nothing but his boxers. Pannone came hustling down the hallway to join the celebration, emphatically knocking on Cheatham’s door until it flung open. The two embraced, tears welling in their eyes.
When Cheatham told his mom, Carolyn, she reacted exactly as he did. She leapt up off her bed, screamed in jubilation, raced through their house in South Phoenix like a kid on Christmas morning. With all she was going through—Carolyn’s battle with stage IV cancer had been intensifying—it was an indescribable moment for them both.
Cheatham’s friend Darvis discovered the news shortly after, when it was first reported on Instagram. His initial thought was, Miami is perfect for Zylan. The organization fit his personality, his mindset, his approach to basketball dating all the way back to middle school. Darvis called him right away.
“Yo, Miami!” he said, his voice rising several octaves. “That’s really where you’re going?!”
Milestones like this always prompted Cheatham to reflect. Without the support of his mom and people like Darvis, he never would have pursued a career in basketball. He might never have left South Phoenix, let alone be bound for the clear skies and pristine beaches of South Beach.
In September 2018, as his final year at Arizona State dawned, Cheatham’s mom texted him a photo of his “trophy wall” back home, where all his accomplishments were proudly on display. Her message along with the photo read, “Look how far we’ve come.”2
Over three years had passed since then. There were more items to add to the wall, more accomplishments to be displayed. But with each step forward, Zylan tried to maintain the same perspective—a broader view of his life’s journey. To not just look ahead but also remember the trophy wall and how far he had already come.
Like Cheatham, Malcolm Hill received a phone call early on the morning of December 21. He didn’t answer.
The phone rang again—no answer.
Again—no answer.
It wasn’t that early, especially by Hill’s standards. He had made the rare decision that morning to sleep in—something about as rare as him eating doughnuts, which he had done the night prior.
Malcolm’s mom, Machanda, had booked a trip to Las Vegas before the rules for the Showcase were abruptly changed due to Omicron. She wasn’t permitted to attend the Squadron games and, to be extra cautious, had barely spent any time with her son while the event was ongoing.
By the evening of December 20, however, Birmingham was done. Malcolm was off until after Christmas. Though he had played another solid game against Grand Rapids, notching 12 points and 5 rebounds, he was more disappointed than satisfied with his performance. As usual, he was his own harshest critic.
If he zoomed out and considered the full season, there wasn’t much to be critical of. Hill was averaging 16.9 points, 6.4 rebounds, and 1.6. steals per game. Since his player-development meeting in mid-November, he had upped his three-point efficiency and was now shooting 40 percent.
But zooming out was difficult for Hill, particularly at a time like this. Machanda sensed that her son would spend the night of the twentieth holding a magnifying glass to all his mistakes, wondering if each one might cost him a chance at the NBA. She proposed that they grab dinner at International Smoke, a restaurant colaunched by Ayesha Curry, wife of NBA superstar Stephen Curry, just to get Malcolm out of the hotel and, hopefully, out of his own head.
They didn’t talk about the Showcase or the flurry of call-ups. Machanda tried to keep Malcolm’s mind on other things. He was scheduled to fly back to Illinois on Wednesday and spend Christmas with the family, which would be a pleasant distraction. He needed a new iPhone, so Machanda offered to go with him to the Apple store the following afternoon. Then they could explore Vegas a bit, she suggested, seeing that they were both now on vacation.
There was a more urgent matter to address, however. Machanda craved dessert. More specifically, she craved doughnuts from Pinkbox, her favorite local spot. It was around 11:00 p.m., and Malcolm preferred to just go back to the hotel, but Machanda insisted. She punched the shop’s address into the GPS and was surprised to see that it was twenty minutes away.
“You’re not doing anything!” she teased Malcolm. “Come on, let’s go!”
Machanda did want doughnuts, especially doughnuts from Pinkbox, a place with pastries so delicious they are “known to cause huge freaking smiles and excitement,” according to the Pinkbox website. But Machanda’s main goal was to keep Malcolm occupied, to do whatever she could to incite huge freaking smiles and excitement instead of huge freaking frowns and anxiety.
When they finally arrived at the shop, which actually resembles a pink box, Machanda realized that they had gone to the wrong location. The best Pinkbox—the one with the most variety—was by the Strip. Machanda certainly hadn’t come this far to settle for less than the best. And Malcolm? Like it or not, he was along for the ride.
The entire escapade lasted over an hour, and it was well past midnight when Malcolm got back to the Mandalay Bay. Machanda’s mission was a success: her son never had a moment to dwell on his mistakes or worry about the future. He expended all his energy pursuing and scarfing down doughnuts before collapsing onto his bed.
The next morning, after Cheatham had been called up to the Heat, Chasanoff was driving to the Mandalay Bay to pick up Pannone. The two had planned an epic outing to get pancakes. Not just any pancakes—celebratory pancakes from the renowned Mr. Mamas on South Jones Boulevard. Pannone, who considered himself a pancake connoisseur, maintained that Mr. Mamas made the best pancakes in the world. He usually laid off carbs, but after his team’s success at Showcase, he had earned a generous stack of liberally buttered flapjacks drowning in maple syrup.
But the much-talked-about pancake plan had to be postponed. Chasanoff was en route to the hotel when he called Hill’s agent, Adam Pensack, to inquire about a different player Pensack represented.
“Have you heard from Malcolm this morning?” Pensack asked, somewhat out of the blue. “Has he taken off yet?”
“No, I think his flight is later.”
“He’s getting a call-up,” Pensack revealed. “Atlanta’s going to call him up, but I can’t get a hold of him.”
Can’t get a hold of him? That was surprising. It was late enough now that Hill was usually out and about. Chasanoff swung the car left and climbed a small ramp to the front entrance of the hotel, where an eager Pannone stood waiting, salivating, ready for pancakes.
“Ryan, you need to wait in the car,” Chasanoff blurted out. “I need to go get Malcolm. The Hawks are calling him up.”
He tossed Ryan the keys and called Dillon McGowan, the Squadron equipment manager and basketball operations associate, to get Hill’s room number: 5-318. Chasanoff darted through the lobby, rode the elevator up to the fifth floor, and linked with Coach Huang in the hallway. Together they started banging on Hill’s door.
“Malcolm!” Chasanoff hollered. “Malcolm, open up!”
After a brief pause, a voice from the other side mumbled, “I don’t need housekeeping.”
“Malcolm, it’s Marc! Come get the door!”
“Oh, oh, I’m coming.” There was movement—footsteps and shuffling. “Do I need to rush? I gotta put my shorts on.”
“No, no, don’t rush.”
About a minute later, the door creaked open. Hill was shirtless, with deep bags under his eyes and a bewildered expression on his face. Chasanoff cut right to the point.
“While you were dead asleep, your agent’s been calling you,” he said.
“Oh, shit. What’s going on?”
“I wanted to make sure you were awake so you can call Adam back. Atlanta is about to call you up.”
“Oh, shit.” Hill needed a second to process. He was still half asleep—still in a zombie-esque stupor—and the situation felt more like a pastry-induced dream than real life. Chasanoff and Huang watched as the truth slowly sunk in. Hill grinned wide. “Oh, shit,” he repeated.
“Yeah, boy!” Huang shouted. “Yes, sir!”
With exactly ten days to go before the calendar flipped to 2022, Hill had achieved his improbable goal: make the NBA by the end of 2021.
“You couldn’t think of anything to say besides ‘Oh, shit’?” Machanda later cracked with a laugh, after watching a video captured by Huang. “That was the first thing that came to you?”
“Oh, shit” was the only thing that came to Malcolm in that moment. He was shocked. When he went to sleep the night before, he had zero suspicion that such news might be delivered to his door like room-service breakfast.
“He had no idea,” Machanda confirmed. “I saw him the night before. It was two months into the season. You’re playing well. You feel like you’re doing well. It hasn’t happened. [You’re thinking], When is it going to happen? Is it going to happen? What is it going to look like? And then it happens, and you’re just like . . . ‘Huh?’”
Chasanoff, Pannone, and Campbell eventually made it to Mr. Mamas. The feeling they all shared that morning was hard to put into words. Chasanoff struggled to find the right adjective, describing it, simply, as “wow.” Pannone called December 21 “one of the greatest days of my coaching career,” even though he did no coaching. There was nothing bittersweet about losing Harper, Cheatham, and Hill to the NBA; it was only sweet. “This is what it’s all about,” Pannone said. During the course of a G League season, times like these were fleeting—moments when all stresses seemed to fade away, when the clock seemed to slow its ticking, when they could just sit in peace at a Las Vegas restaurant, munching on the best pancakes in the world.